Vernon's tin-can car puttered into a crusty old London side-street that used to be the shit back in the day. Decades ago? Wall-to-wall foot traffic. Now? Still busy, but more "flea-market chic" than "Fifth Avenue."
Leading the pack was Hagrid—built like a goddamn refrigerator with legs—parting the crowd like Moses on steroids.
"Right here."
He stops next to a blank brick wall by a dusty bookstore. "Leaky Cauldron entrance."
"Bar entrance?" Vernon and Dudley stare at the wall like it just flipped 'em the bird.
"Only wizards can see the door. Muggles need a guide. Grab Holly and Lynn's hands—you'll slip right through."
To Holly and Lynn? Clear as day: weathered wooden door, crooked sign swinging overhead—Leaky Cauldron.
Hagrid shoulders it open. They file in. Street pedestrians don't even blink as the whole circus vanishes.
Instantly, Petunia lets out a prissy "Ew~"
Woman's a clean-freak, and this place is a bio-hazard. Floor hasn't been mopped since Queen Vic was on the throne—sticky, squishy, like stepping on a giant fungal mat. Gag.
Hagrid's a walking landmark. Half the bar raises glasses. Behind the counter, Tom—bald, toothless, wiping grime with a grimy rag—grins.
"Usual, Hagrid?"
"Nah. Hogwarts business. Takin' these two shoppin' in Diagon."
"Rare sight."
Tom's bleary eyes slide to Holly and Lynn. Lingers on Lynn—no lightning scar, meh—then shrugs. Kid's cute, whatever.
"First-years, eh? My niece Hannah Abbott starts this year too. Sweet girl. Maybe they'll be pals."
"Catch ya later—lunch rush incoming."
Hagrid herds 'em to the back. Dead-end courtyard, trash bins, red brick wall.
"Diagon entrance. Watch close: up three bricks, over two—tap three times with yer wand."
He yanks a pink frilly umbrella from his coat (don't ask), taps the bricks. Wall ripples, bricks folding like origami into a wide archway. Cobblestone path snakes into the distance.
"Welcome to Diagon Alley!"
Hagrid beams under the beard. Medieval chaos—vendors hawking, haggling, weird-ass trinkets screaming for attention.
He lets 'em gawk. Was worried the Dursleys treated Holly like trash; now? They're doting harder than on Dudley. Warms the cockles.
Mid-stroll, Hagrid shells out for Fortescue's levitating ice cream—one bite and you float a few inches. Even Lynn, owner of a 4D junk-dimension backpack, is geeking out. Magic's new to him too. Thought he'd landed in 1990s alt-Britain till Privet Drive clued him in.
Wizards hide good. So few, he never spotted one in years of wandering.
"Gringotts next. Don't trust goblins—they're slick little shits."
White marble palace towers over the street. Dursleys nod—goblins look like they'd sell your grandma for a nickel.
Inside? Pure opulence. At the counter, Hagrid turns to Lynn: "Want a vault?"
"Maybe?" Lynn shrugs. "How much?"
"Ah~ esteemed sir," the goblin smirks, smelling profit. "Gringotts—safest bank in wizardom. Seven vault tiers. Top security."
"Cheapest?"
"Thirty Galleons, one-time fee."
Lynn: "Broke. Pass."
Goblin's face sours.
"Exchange rate still five quid to a Galleon?"
"Yes, sir." Voice now arctic. "Hogwarts students get 100-Galleon annual limit."
"Over that?"
"Unlimited gold-for-Galleons."
Gold's still king—alchemy don't play.
"Cool. Gimme a hundred."
Lynn dumps a fat wad of crumpled pounds—over a grand, most of his net worth. Telekinesis and teleportation make money easy; tent and magic tablecloth mean he barely spends. Why hustle?
Goblin counts five hundred, slides the rest back.
"Care for a bottomless, feather-light, anti-theft coin purse?"
"Nah."
Lynn sweeps the gold into his pack. "Safe enough."
Goblin huffs, swivels to Holly. "You?"
"Vault withdrawal."
She flashes the gold key. Goblin's eyes bug. Potter vault—old money, Sleakeazy's patent still printing cash. Not Sacred 28, but loaded.
Wait—ain't Harry a dude?
Goblin shrugs. Key's legit. Lost key, lost fortune—witch's problem.
"One more thing." Hagrid slides over an envelope. "Vault 713."
Goblin stiffens, checks it, nods. "Griphook!"
Griphook scampers up, leads 'em down a torch-lit stone tunnel to a rickety mine cart. Whistle—cart rockets into the depths.
Wind howls. Twisting tracks. Two minutes of gut-churn later—SCREECH—Hagrid's green.
"Mint?" Lynn offers wrapped peppermints.
"Bless ya." Hagrid pops a handful. Cooling burn eases the nausea.
Griphook unlocks Holly's vault. Green smoke billows, door groans open. Torchlight hits—
Mountains of Galleons. Silver Sickles. Bronze Knuts. Crates of bullion. Jeweled swords and shields on the walls. Holly gasps.
"All yours," Hagrid chuckles.
"Maybe I do need that purse?" Holly mutters to Lynn. "Mind lending your bag?"
Hagrid stuffs a leather pouch with a grand's worth. Drops it in Lynn's pack—pocket change compared to the hoard.
"Feelin' like a trust-fund brat yet?"
On the ride to 713, Lynn smirks. Holly's glowing.
"I can buy gifts for Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, Dudley—and you, Lynn!"
Her smile lights up the tunnel like a damn firework.
Lynn whistles. "Girl, that grin? Boys are screwed."
Holly's smile falters, turns away.
Vault 713? Anticlimax. Hagrid snags a grubby paper package and bolts. Holly's curious but way more hyped for retail therapy.
Back topside, shopping spree kicks off. Holly grabs a proper bottomless belt-pouch—Trace-less Stretch charms are easy, but shoddy ones explode. Ministry can't ban 'em, but smart wizards buy certified.
Books done, Lynn splits: "Gonna browse solo. Meet at Leaky, 4 PM?"
Holly's drooling over Nimbus 2000s in Quality Quidditch Supplies. Deal.
Lynn's chill—his junk-bag prepped him for weird. But one thing still calls:
Ollivanders.
Tucked in the dingy back stretch—secondhand shops, peeling paint. Lynn's heart thuds as he pushes open the creaky door.
Dimensional loot's cool, but magic? Learn it, own it—forever.